When The Beast Cries
by raeymaeker
Summary: Mr. Gold visits The Rabbit Hole once a year, every February 12th. He listens to "Hallelujah," drinks three scotches, and departs, leaving a fourth full glass and two one-hundred dollar bills behind. This time, Toph - the bartender - hears Mr. Gold say two words before he leaves: "Goodbye, Belle." [One-shot. Now a three-shot.]
1. Chapter 1

It was February 12.

Toph glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearing midnight.

He would be here soon.

Ignoring his other patrons in their varying stages of drunkenness, Toph pulled out his best scotch and started to pour it into his cleanest glass. Few people in Storybrooke ever ordered this drink. Few could even afford it, for that matter. But of course money wasn't a problem for this particular customer. The man owned most of the city. Heck, he even owned the deed to The Rabbit Hole. But even so, there were only two times Mr. Gold ever stepped foot in the bar: once a month when he came to collect money and once a year on the twelfth of February.

Toph carried the drink over to the shady, dark corner Mr. Gold always chose. Leroy was sitting there.

"I need you to move, Leroy," Toph said.

Leroy's head was bent over his beer. "Make me," he growled.

Toph leaned forward. "That's Mr. Gold's seat."

At the mention of Storybrooke's most feared, Leroy gave a huff but stumbled away. Toph quickly wiped off the area, making sure it looked perfectly clean, then set the glass down in the middle of the table on top of a napkin. Even in the shadows, the color of the scotch was rich amber, as though the liquid had been infused with gilded light.

Double checking that everything was as it should be, Toph moved back behind the bar and waited. It was a Tuesday night so there weren't too many people about. Just the regulars—Leroy, Dr. Whale, a few sailors, a handful of others. A song by Celine Dion was playing on the jukebox. It was the second time that night her clear, pure voice had serenaded Storybrooke's finest drunkards, and Toph assumed that Leroy was to blame. The gruff man had an odd affinity for the woman.

The door opened and Toph heard a hush fall over the bar as people saw who it was. One man even started to slink toward the back door.

It was Mr. Gold. Right on time.

Under a black overcoat, he was wearing a dark three-piece suit with a shirt and tie which were a few shades shy of midnight black. The only color was the chocolaty brown silk scarf about the collar of his coat, and the flash of gold on his cane under his leather-clad hand. Nothing was out of place, not even a hair. He was the picture of authority, of terror.

He stood there for a moment, meeting everyone's eyes with cool apathy until they were forced to look away, down to their drinks. Seeing them sufficiently cowed, Mr. Gold limped across the still room to his shadowy corner, not deigning to recognize Toph or give any sign he was pleased that Toph had already prepared his drink. But then again, Mr. Gold never did.

It had taken several years before Toph had realized that Mr. Gold's very infrequent visit to The Rabbit Hole always happened to coincide on the same day every year. And when he had realized, Toph had been very quick to ensure that everything would be right for each annual visit. He would make sure Mr. Gold's brand of scotch was in stock, that the entire bar would be deep-cleaned on the tenth of every February (close enough that it'd be spotless but no lingering scent of cleaning supplies would be present), and that Mr. Gold's seat and drink would be prepared by midnight. It was Toph's most important night of the year, even more important than St. Patrick's Day and all other holidays. February 12 was Mr. Gold's night. And it always went the same way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Toph watched as Mr. Gold hooked his cane on the table and sat down with relative grace. He sat there for several minutes, turning the scotch in his cup and watching it swirl with dark eyes, before he suddenly brought it to his mouth and drained the whole burning liquid in one take. Then he upturned the glass and set it in the corner past his arm, and Toph knew better than to take the empty glass until Mr. Gold had left for the night. Instead, Toph prepared a new glass and, without a word, deposited it in front of the man.

And then came the part that, when it had happened the first time, had shocked Toph and every person in sight.

Mr. Gold got up, gripped his cane, and limped to the jukebox. Celine was still playing, but without a pause, Mr. Gold leaned over and unplugged the machine.

Leroy didn't dare protest. No one would.

Then Mr. Gold plugged it back in, slipped a few quarters into the slot, and made a selection. The jukebox whirred a bit and then the soft, lonely guitar notes filled the bar.

Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah."

Mr. Gold stood there, head bowed, long hair concealing his eyes, until the voice started singing. He straightened up and made his careful way back to his shadowy corner, the small thump of his cane sounding above the soft music.

_I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord. But you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift—the baffled king composing Hallelujah_.

He threw back another scotch. Upended it next to the first. Picked up the third glass which Toph had placed in front of him. Swirled it, stared at it.

_Your faith was strong but you needed proof; you saw her bathing on the roof. Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you. She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, and she cut your hair. And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_.

Toph didn't get it. He'd seen Mr. Gold do this over and over again, and each time, he was no closer to understanding. And that confused Toph even more because he realized that the Mr. Gold sitting in the corner, getting drunk over scotch while listening to the puzzling lyrics of a puzzling song—that _this_ Mr. Gold was more true than the Mr. Gold that prowled the streets of Storybrooke, hunting for rent. This Mr. Gold was laid bare, somehow. Naked. Vulnerable.

His brown eyes were lost, weighed down by a world of painful secrets. His shoulders hunched. His face had lost its flint, consumed by what Toph could only think was agony, guilt.

Toph could see Mr. Gold every day for a year. He could give the man rent, hear all the rumors surrounding him, visit his shop. Toph could watch the man every day for the rest of his life, but he realized that he only saw the faintest glimmer of the true Mr. Gold on this day, the twelfth of every February.

_Baby, I have been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. I've seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march: it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_.

Another glass drained. Another swirled in its place.

_Maybe there's a God above. But all I've ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you. It's not a cry you can hear at night; it's not somebody who has seen the light; it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah. _

And now the tears.

Toph knew that no one else in the room could see it, and he wondered if he was the only man in Storybrooke to have ever seen the beast cry. Mr. Gold's face was creased with an anguish and torture that Toph knew he himself had never ever felt in his own life. It was a grief that surpassed grief, and Toph idly wondered if maybe only beasts knew what true grief was. He wondered if maybe the seemingly ever-apathetic Mr. Gold knew more about emotion, about humanity than any other living man.

_Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!_

The song ended. The room was quiet. Three scotch glasses were upended by Mr. Gold's elbow. The fourth, still full, was sitting on the napkin.

It was done.

Mr. Gold grabbed his cane and when he stood up, his face was blank, empty. He reached into his wallet and pulled out two crisp, fresh $100 bills. He set them, almost gently, next to the remaining full glass.

"Goodbye, Belle."

Two words, so soft, so eternally pained, Toph had only caught them once before.

Then Mr. Gold, the beast of Storybrooke, turned on his heel and limped out the door.

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS or COHEN'S LYRICS TO "HALLELUJAH" or THE SMALL BAR SCENE IN INTERPRETER. **btw#2** – February 12th was the original air date of "Skin Deep."]


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't February 12th.

It wasn't time for the rent.

It wasn't…anything.

But Toph wouldn't mistake that detached face, that pristine suit, that gilded cane anywhere. Mr. Gold was standing at the entrance to the Rabbit Hole.

"Uh, yes, Mr. Gold," Toph stammered out, quickly setting the glass he was drying aside while he prayed that he had Mr. Gold's exclusive brand of scotch in stock.

Mr. Gold didn't reply right away. He was glancing about the dim room as though looking for something or someone, and Toph noticed that he was oddly ill at ease.

There were two Mr. Gold's Toph knew. One was the unfeeling, powerful landlord who collected rent every fourth Tuesday of the month. The second was the broken man who came once a year on February 12th, stripped of his mask and vulnerable. This Mr. Gold, standing in front of him, was neither. This Mr. Gold was uncertain and concerned, his lips drawn tight and forehead creased.

Finally, Mr. Gold's wandering eyes settled on Toph's. "Someone I care for has gone missing," he said. "All she left behind was a matchbook to this vile joint."

"Vile, really?" Toph asked. He started to laugh but it died on his lips at the stern glare on Mr. Gold's face.

Was this the same Mr. Gold who came here every February 12th as if on a pilgrimage?

Toph schooled his face and murmured, "Yeah, okay, we could clean it up some."

To himself he added, _If you were here on February 12th when you're supposed to be here, it'd be spotless_.

Mr. Gold continued his perusal of the place, looking, searching. "I don't understand this," he said with a frown.

_Neither do I_, Toph thought.

"If you knew her, this would be the last place she would go."

"Not really a fan of the Rabbit Hole, are you," Toph said, trying for humor. It fell dead flat. "Okay, describe her."

"Brown hair, beautiful blue eyes, an accent you wouldn't soon forget," Mr. Gold said, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Toph was about to point Mr. Gold in Lacey's direction when the man continued.

"Her name is Belle."

Belle?

Toph knew that name. Belle was the woman Mr. Gold said goodnight to at the end of his visit every February 12th. Belle was the memory that unmasked Storybrooke's beast once a year, that brought Storybrooke's most feared to his knees with a silent sob tearing from his throat. Toph felt a thrill in his veins at the possibility that finally, after all these years, he might learn the secret to Mr. Gold's yearly visits.

But something wasn't right.

"Belle? Are you sure?" Toph asked. "Because that sounds an awful lot like Lacey."

"Who the hell is Lacey?"

Toph pointed to the pool tables and to the woman in the revealing blue halter top who had sauntered into the bar a few hours ago like she owned the place.

As soon as Mr. Gold saw Lacey, he froze, and the face Toph saw was of a man who had lost everything he held dear. A man who was adrift. Ruined. Toph knew then and there that that face would stick in his mind as clearly as the face of the man crying over his third glass of scotch to the tune of "Hallelujah."

As if in a daze, Mr. Gold limped away without another word.

"Hey, Toph," Leroy drunkenly slurred. "Get me another, will you?"

Toph pulled his eyes away from the scene at the pool table, from the man whose whole world seemed to have come crashing down over his head, and turned to serve Leroy.

* * *

They came back three days later.

It was Saturday night, only an hour away from closing time, when the door was flung open and a woman's giggling caught Toph's attention. He looked up from the table he was wiping down and bolted upright in surprise. It was Mr. Gold with that Lacey girl, but everything about the man had changed.

Toph had never thought Mr. Gold was an especially terrifying man. Stern, yes. Caustic, absolutely. But he'd never actually feared him.

Until now.

There was something dark and reckless hanging about him today, a wild, possessive gleam in his eyes. It was the first time since the change that Toph believed that Mr. Gold could indeed be the Dark One.

Lacey was all but clinging to his shoulder, digging her nose under his jaw, and Mr. Gold had his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, almost roughly. He led her to the nearest booth (which was also the furthest away from where he usually sat on February 12th), and she landed sprawled on the chair, sending her off into another bout of giggles.

"A bottle of your finest scotch," Mr. Gold gruffly ordered in a heavy brogue, already clearly intoxicated. "And make it quick or you'll wish you were never born, dearie."

Toph hastened to grab Mr. Gold's usual drink and two glasses, bringing it to their table. "Nice to see you again so soon, Mr. Gold," Toph said in a quiet voice, quickly pouring the amber liquid.

Lacey wrinkled her nose. "You know I don't like this stuff," she said to Mr. Gold.

"Humor me," he said with a dark smirk.

Toph had finished pouring the drinks and hurried away, but not before he caught Lacey's flirtatious smile as she threw the scotch back.

"Good girl," he heard Mr. Gold murmur.

As soon as Toph reached the safety of the bar, he took a moment to breathe, forcing himself not to spy on Mr. Gold and Lacey. None of it made sense. First Mr. Gold was searching for a Belle who ended up being Lacey, and now Mr. Gold was…different. If this Lacey was the same Belle Mr. Gold toasted every February 12th, perhaps Toph had misunderstood the entire yearly rite. Toph had always thought this mysterious Belle stripped away Mr. Gold's layers, making bare who the man really was. But in the company of this woman, this Lacey, Toph felt that Mr. Gold was even more layered, even more masked than ever before.

Toph laughed bitterly when he paused to listen to himself.

What right did he have to analyze Mr. Gold, a three-hundred-year-old dark sorcerer, like a freaking psychologist?

He shook his head and went back to cleaning the tables.

And that's when the song played.

Toph didn't know who in the bar had selected "Hallelujah" or if the jukebox was playing random favorites, but it didn't matter, because as soon as the soft, melancholy guitar notes played, his gut churned.

_I've heard there was a secret chord that David played, and it pleased the Lord. But you don't really care for music, do you? It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift—the baffled king composing Hallelujah_.

Toph dared a glance over to Mr. Gold and saw that the man had gone completely still. His eyes were dead, his face empty, a glass of amber scotch lay forgotten in his hand.

_Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!_

Mr. Gold still hadn't moved. Lacey was too busy with her drink to notice the change that had fallen over her partner.

_Baby, I have been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. I've seen your flag on the marble arch. Love is not a victory march: it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_.

As another chorus of sad Hallelujah's rang out, Mr. Gold suddenly surged to his feet and in ten long strides, he reached the jukebox. Hoisting his cane up, he swung it and bashed the machine, striking it again and again and again. Even after the music had stopped, he kept hitting it, beating the metal repeatedly until the cane clattered out of his hands and onto the floor. Shoulders heaving, he bent over the broken jukebox, his hair over his face.

The entire room had gone deathly silent. Only the Dark One's labored breathing could be heard.

"Didn't like that song too well, did you tiger?" Lacey finally said from her booth with an amused laugh.

She was laughing.

She was laughing, and the only thing Toph felt like doing was cry for the beast. With the beast.

After one of the heaviest moments in Toph's life, Mr. Gold straightened, leaned down to pick up his cane, and, without looking at anyone, limped out of the pub.

* * *

[**btw** – I DON'T OWN OUAT OR ITS CHARACTERS. **btw#2** – I always imagined that "When the Beast Cries" would be a one-shot, but after posting it, it always felt incomplete for some reason. One month later, I was driven to post this chapter on Lacey and will eventually post a third and final chapter on Belle—the two missing links. Once I complete the trio, I think this fic will finally allow itself to be laid to its rest. | As always, thanks to all for the reviews and support on my first chapter.]


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